Posts filed under 'KF3 (Kiva Fellows 3rd Class)'
Fast 6 months!
It was in December 2006 when I received an email from my brother inviting me to join a cool new website named Kiva.org which allowed individuals with a credit card to finance entrepreneurs in the developing world. Although I had heard of Microfinance I didn’t fully appreciate what it offered the world until I began to research Kiva.org, its field partners, and had read Muhammad Yunus’s book “Banker to the Poor”. I then realized how special the Kiva concept was and knew I had to get involved.
I am now close to the end of my 6 month Kiva Fellowship working with their Peruvian partner Manuela Ramos CrediMujer. Zig-zagging my way through the Amazon Basin, Sierras, and Coast interviewing hundreds of entrepreneurs, writing about their lives, and working side by side incredible loan officers has been one amazing experience.
But the best part about this Fellowship has been discovering that there is no Microfinance/NGO scam… the system works. The working poor are responsible financial clients, the Microfinance Institutions offer valuable, fair services, and these small loans really do change lives! Every entrepreneur I interviewed agreed their life had improved after receiving a loan. Even when an entrepreneur hadn’t experienced significant economic gains they had discovered self worth, independence, and dignity. Externalities of self worth and dignity include happier, healthier families, environments, and communities!


This trip may be close to over but I’m eager to support Kiva and the Microfinance community for years to come.
2 comments 5 May 2008
Sorry, Officer, I just don’t do fines.
Days go by and I often forget how life in Africa can be so different than life in the States. Events from this past weekend remind me that I am going to really miss Tanzania when I leave in June.
On Saturday, I was driving to a friend’s house when I was stopped by a policeman who flagged me down from the side of the road. In Swahili, he asked for my license and then asked for me to show him that the brakes, lights, windshield wipers, etc. work. Seeing that everything worked properly, he started talking about something outside the car. Unfamiliar with these Swahili words, I got out to see that he was pointing to rust on the side of the car. He led me around the car to point out all the spots that had some rust. I replied in English (due to my limited Swahili) that it’s true, that it is an old car. He told me that the rust was “a problem” and that I would have to pay a fine of 20,000 Tanzanian Shillings (about $18). Flabbergasted, I responded saying, “I’m very sorry, but I don’t do fines. Please just take me to court.” We argued about it for a few minutes. He kept saying that court was unnecessary, but I insisted that I preferred going to court. He then left with my license to deal with another driver. Returning five to ten minutes later, he asked if I was ready for the fine papers. I said no, and insisted that I just wanted the court date. Having grown up in East Africa, I know all too well of the common occurrence of “kitu kidogo” (Swahili for the polite way of asking for a bribe). At that moment, I remembered that humor was probably my best tactic. In broken Swahili, I laughed saying that receiving a court date was better for me since I would just get the owner who I borrowed the car from to show for court. He then laughed with me and finally he let me go.
Sunday brought me more amusement. I was walking from my home to the grocery store to buy some margarine when I met an eleven-year-old girl named Mariam on the road. She struck up conversation with me since we were walking in the same direction. Although she was from my neighborhood, she looked like a typical village girl, all except for the fact that she was wearing slippers instead of walking barefoot. She had a sarong wrapped around her over a ragged, oversized dress. On her head, she carried a large, heavy plastic bucket of rice which she was taking to the mill to be processed into flour for her mother’s roadside snack business. She rejected my offer to assist her with the bucket and made her own offer to carry my umbrella.
Walking side-by-side, we used up all the Swahili I know. Going an extra half-mile out of her way, she accompanied me to the grocery store, located (ironically) at the most modern mall in Tanzania. The contrast between this girl, with the big bucket on her head, and the westernized mall around us intrigued me. After buying the margarine and some chocolate, as was her request, we then walked to complete her chore down some muddy back roads where chickens dart across the street. Somehow, at the end of the walk, I felt like we were two peas in a pod.
Making friends and laughter with strangers is an everyday experience here that I will dearly miss when I go. Life in Tanzania is lived in a sense of community in which people prefer to sit with strangers than to sit alone. I find that if I am ever alone at a roadside restaurant waiting for a friend, people who come in and see me by myself often choose to join my table although there are empty ones nearby. Not only do they want to “alleviate” me from my aloneness, these strangers courteously welcome me with a “karibu” to the food they have ordered. Life, I am ever finding out, becomes richer and more amusing when we all accept each other as peas in a pod.
Add comment 30 April 2008
On Returning Home… …some thoughts from the plane
The past six months have been indescribable. I’ve attempted to wrap my thoughts around them and put them to words, but the result does not compare to the experience. I’m home now, trying to find a way to live here, in this world, with the same passion that comes so naturally when given the constant inspiration and education I received from Kiva’s entrepreneurs. Here are some thoughts I scrambled together on the plane ride home, reflecting on what there is left to do and how to possibly take on the challenge:
Poor little rich girl with the luxury of picking around the slightly bruised grapes, choosing not to eat the peas and carrots accompanying the mashed potatoes. What must it be like to not think that way; to feed your child dirt to quell the pangs coming forth from their tiny helpless body? Part of me almost wishes I knew, just so I could identify with those who own this as their reality. Because I can never know, no matter how close to it I live, how many mothers I see defeated, how many sighs of helplessness I breath. Trying to understand it is like trying to understand war by watching Glory, love by reading Shakespeare. I can get lots of ideas, form my opinions, decide what I think the best solutions might be, but I can never know it. It is a part of me in an entirely different way than it is a part of them. They are teaching me. I selfishly benefit from their misfortunate birth into poverty. I can choose to learn from them, or to go elsewhere and learn from someone or something else instead. But for them, the choice is only present in the decision to get up and fight one more day.
The world is perfectly cruel and wonderful, tilted just like the earth itself to bring constant periods of light and dark. In all its unbalanced harmony, where a small percent of the population controls the vast majority of the world’s wealth, there is enough. The problem is, not for a second, resources. The problem is distribution. Distribution of food, water, education, opportunity. There is enough food on the earth for each person, all 6.6 billion of us, to eat almost 3000 calories a day. But while we fill up on free refills and seconds and thirds at the buffet, others feed their children dirt, simply to temporarily relieve the unimaginable ache that haunts every waking moment.
I don’t know who said it, but I’ve often repeated to myself the phrase ‘comfort is a vice’ over the past six months. Comfort can be wonderful and good, but the things it keeps us from doing are dangerous. Comfort keeps us from committing to the voice within us telling us to act when we see something that needs to change. Comfort encourages us to drive on, live our lives in the warmth of our home, enjoying the fruits of our labor while ignoring the barrenness of theirs. Maybe if it were our neighbor who was feeding their child dirt for every meal, maybe then we wouldn’t cling to comfort. But isn’t it our neighbor? Our mother, our brother, our friend?
There are society’s solutions to poverty–give of your money to every charity that knocks at your door, or volunteer your time until you are so exhausted you have no more time to give. Maybe if you donate both of these gifts, you won’t have to be annoyed with guilt from the wonderful burden of knowing that you do have the power to change the world. But basing your role in change on society’s validation doesn’t work. Listen to yourself. You know your truth, you know how to press your inner comfort levels, to challenge your abilities and be an agent for change. The world needs not only our money and our time; it needs our talents, our compassion, our love, our attention. If you could make a change in the world, in your country, your city, your home, what would you do?
If your brother were born without sight, would you read him stories? Share your knowledge? If your sister had no legs, would you carry her? If your daughter were mute, would you speak for her? If your son was hurt on the side of the road with no way of calling for help, and all who passed him by looked the other way, what would you feel? Would you be his voice? How would you help him find his voice so he could be the voice for another?
Instead of anger, choose resolution. Instead of hate, choose love. And instead of indifference, choose action. Choose to be moved by the quiet voice in your head that is so easily ignored. Listen to it. Instead of just talking about all the world’s problems, take the guidance from Gandhi; Be the change you wish to see in the world.
8 comments 16 April 2008
Cold Weather
Over the past five months I have, several times, made the ignorant mistake of poking fun at the perceived idea of ‘cold’ here. Coming from Minnesota, land of ‘the nation’s ice box’, where just a couple weeks ago it hit a record low of 40 below, before wind-chill, I have a different mentality of cold than someone from a not-so-northern state, who might put on a winter jacket when the weather hits 60, when we don a t-shirt come spring when the thermometer notch reads above freezing. So, when traveling to places in Peru and now Guatemala, that are known to the locals as unbearably cold, I simply laugh and say, ‘I’m from Minnesota, I think I can handle it’.
And, of course, I can- because I have a heated room with hot water and warm blankets to go home to after the day’s work. It has taken me five months to realize this, and I feel so foolish for my delay. Choosing where to live in the ‘developed’ world, based on weather conditions, has always been a question of simple taste. Do you like snow? Do you crave the sun? Do you love the water? Do you need the openness of endless plains, or the distraction of the mountains? But not here. A few days ago a Guatemalan woman asked me about my home. She was intrigued by the weather of Minnesota, trying to picture that much snow or that amount of cold. But she had a confused look, and asked, very awe-struck, what we do for food during the winter. Because certainly, crops can’t grow like that. I had no idea how to answer that. The simple answer of ‘we drive to the grocery store just like we do in the summer’ didn’t seem to be appropriate, so I rattled something off about cows and pigs and chickens being okay in the cold. I felt my ignorance rising up inside, and made an unsuccessful attempt to explain importing food from other regions not burdened by the cold, but realized I had no real idea what I was talking about.
The cold here, when you have no heat and holes in the broken walls of your house, is lethal. Thinking about it made me cringe with sadness for the homeless in Minnesota, too. I can’t imagine. I have been cold before, truly freezing, with icicles forming on my eyelashes, but I have always done so out of free will, with the option of running back inside to the warmth and security of a heated home full of blankets, fireplaces, and hot chocolate. And here, if the cold doesn’t kill you, it kills your crops, your one hope for an income or nourishment for your family. I wonder if this fear is present for farmers in the ‘developed’ world, when I read about an early unexpected frost.
I’m slightly embarrassed it took me this long to see things a little more as they really are. I wonder what else my ignorance is keeping from me…
6 comments 14 March 2008
Kibiti Stars
TANZANIA. Last week, I was given the opportunity to train BRAC Tanzania staff on Kiva in Kibiti, which is located about 150 km outside of Dar es Salaam. Riding from the noisy, congested (yet still completely lovable) city to the luscious green countryside brought refreshment to my senses.
Kibiti is a small agricultural town on the way to one of the famous game parks in Tanzania, thus making it a popular stopping point for people passing through. The center of town is the highway, and life for its residents seems to revolve around what the highway brings and takes away.
The town has no electricity, although electric lines run right through the town toward another destination. I asked someone why Kibiti wasn’t receiving any electricity from the lines, but the only answer I was given is that the government is still working on it. As a result of the lack of electricity (except for generator usage), the stars that night were indescribable.
I, along with the two BRAC staff who accompanied me, stayed that one night at the nicest guesthouse in town. A room cost 4,000 Tanzanian Shillings (about $3.50). The guesthouse even had running water and a generator which I was told runs after dark for 4 hours each night. I was surprised that night when the generator remained running past the 4 hour mark. Only afterward did I realize that they had kept it running just for me, the foreigner. As soon as the light in my room went off, the generator went off. In the morning, I asked the BRAC staff if it was normal for the generator to be on so late and was told no. I felt guilty because my stay probably cost them more in generator fuel than the $3.50 it had cost for the room. Once again, because of my skin color and Tanzania’s value of gracious hospitality toward foreigners, I was given undeserved privilege.
The town had one main restaurant, where the customers pretty much have to order most items a day in advance. In the town, there were also the typical street cafes, where women sell plates of rice, beans, and stew. The BRAC staff and I sat at one of the street cafés for some after-dinner tea that night and found out that the seller had been one of BRAC’s former clients. Last year, the woman had taken a 100,000 Tsh (about $90) loan from BRAC in order to buy more cups, plates, and food stock for her business. She had been able to pay back the loan, but in the end, it hadn’t benefited her business that much because the demand for her food is so low in the town. She told us that the only way her business survives is by selling a plate of her food at 600 Tsh (about 55 cents) whereas the other places sell at 800 Tsh and above. Each night, she has her regular 12 customers– bachelors living in the town. Her daily profit is 3000 Tsh. She acknowledged that unless she upgrades her café by building a structure and providing seating, she will never be able to attract more customers. Although she has fear about whether or not she would be able to pay back another loan like the last one, she agreed that borrowing smaller loans could potentially help her business move slowly toward her dream. She seemed so happy to talk to us about her struggles and probably thankful that she had exceeded her 12 customer limit for the night. I too was thankful. Her ginger tea was delicious, and I was thankful that that night we were able to become a small part of her amazing story.
1 comment 5 March 2008
Child labor?
I am finding myself in situations here that require much moral thought, and I can’t seem to come up with the right answer, no matter which choice I make. There are children everywhere, all of them somehow under the age of twelve, and all of them working the same trade, selling bracelets, scarves, and little souvenirs on the streets, sharing their stories of sadness and begging for your business. I don’t know what to do with them. Long ago I couldn’t have seen anything but goodness in giving to a child- believing that my money and my food will help them out of their poverty. Now, I see things differently (although not entirely).
I have mixed feelings about buying from children in the street. On one hand, they are offering me something in exchange for my money, so they are working for it, it’s not a handout. On the other hand, they are working for it. They are so young, should they be spending their time working all day? And if I buy from them, does it just affirm to their parents that yes, they should be working all day? My heart tells me to never turn away a child, but my mind goes through the whole process, and sees a parent who has the option to put their child in school, or on the streets working. And when the child comes home from work with money, which option will the parent choose? But then six-year-old Tomás comes up begging, dirt in his eyes, no shoes, and pleading for me to buy a doll from him, he hasn’t eaten all day and he needs to buy a tortilla, please. What can you do? I had met Tomás earlier in the day as I sat down to read. I told him no, thank you, I didn’t want to buy a doll. This time he found me as I waited for my dinner. Sometimes I’ve seen kids laughing in the streets, and as they see me coming, they immediately stop laughing and turn on the sad face, as if it’s a Pavlovian instinct triggered by a gringo. But Tomás, his tears appeared genuine, the desperation in his voice real. There was a family next to me, and they had a small dog who was clearly loved. They were having a pleasant family night, eating pizza, drinking Cokes, laughing at stories and playing with their dog. Tomás approached them, necklaces draped over his arm, dolls in hand, asking five Quetzales for both (about 75 cents). They politely said no, and continued on with their night. He persisted, lowering his price, showing them the necklaces, telling them his story. They again said no, not unexpectedly. Finally, Tomás asked if he could have some food, as he was so hungry and they had plenty of leftovers. They said no, and eventually he gave up and moved on to me. As I was talking with Tomás, his eyes looking as if they were about to spill over, this family’s dog was barking, sitting on his hind legs, and being fed pizza for each trick he performed. It broke my heart to have to watch Tomás witness this, I can’t imagine what he made of it—people would rather feed their food to a dog than take away his hunger.
I don’t intend to judge this family, they have their reasons, and the situation runs deeper than I can imagine. It just struck me, and made me wonder.
I had an encounter the night before that made me start thinking about this subject. I was, again, sitting down to dinner in a little café on the main street of Panajachel. I had just gotten an iced tea and was writing in my journal, and a little girl approached me, basket upon her head, another one in her arms, begging me in her sad voice to please buy a bracelet, she hadn’t made a sale and couldn’t go home until she made some money. I said no, sorry, they’re beautiful but I’m not going to buy any. She persisted, lowering her prices, showing me everything she had to offer. I looked up this time, and said no thank you, not tonight. She didn’t seem fazed; rather she sat down, and asked what I was doing. I told her I was writing, and asked if she liked to write. She said she did very much, but even more she liked to draw. We talked for a few minutes, she had several questions; she wanted to know how I could write so many words, and what tea tasted like when it was cold. After a bit she got the courage to ask if she could draw in my book. I said of course, and her eyes turned huge with excitement. She took my pen, opened to the first blank page, and began to draw a picture of the Lake Atitlan, with a smiling sun rising over the mountains (the sun was happy because it was morning). She drew pictures of her house and her family, flowers and hearts and birds. I asked her if she could write her name, to which she answered, of course! She then wrote down a little poem, and signed it ‘Para Maren, De Maria Guadalupe’. Clearly, this eleven-year-old was being educated. At this point I decided it was okay if I bought a bracelet from her. Figuring she’d leave after she had my business, she instead continued to draw, talking away, hardly even noticing the money in front of her. A friend of hers approached, basket in hand, and upon seeing us drawing, dropped her basket and pulled up a chair. She wanted to draw, too, and after a minute we were playing games—one person begins a drawing, the next has to add to it, and the next finishes it, ultimately deciding what the object will be. Somewhere in here, my pizza arrived, and I felt quite guilty and a little rude eating in front of these girls. They weren’t about to ask for any, but you could see hunger in them. I didn’t know if it was okay or not, but I shared the pizza and hoped for the best. I felt as if I were sitting down to lunch with friends- they were so grown up, and had so many questions. They both go to school regularly- Maria Guadalupe wants to be a teacher (and when she heard that’s what I had studied, I was amazed at the questions she had for me), and Veronica wants to be a tour guide because she loves to travel.
The girls drew and played games and recited poems for close to an hour, part of me feeling guilty for keeping them from work, the other part kicking myself for feeling guilty. They so eagerly abandoned their work, and transitioned so naturally into being kids. I fought with this, wondering if it’s okay for them to work, or if it’s okay because it’s not taking them away from their education, but wondering if it will eventually keep them from studying, when their parents see they’ve brought home so much money… The two girls decided to show me how they make the bracelets, and did so so quickly and skillfully. I thought they would try and sell me these new bracelets, but instead they tied them on my wrist as gifts. I almost lost it. I think I wished I could adopt them more than I wish for a puppy.
I have no decided point to this story, simply meanderings about what to do in situations like these. Does giving to children encourage their parents to put them on the street? Is it okay for kids to work if they’re still getting an education? Should we buy from kids even if it does encourage child labor- for how will they eat if we don’t? What’s more important, that the child eats or that we make a point? If you have any thoughts or ideas on the subject, I’d love to hear them…
5 comments 19 February 2008
Changes
I’ve found myself lately in a state of peace I can’t seem to explain nor justify. But peace is much preferred to chaos, and I’ll take it, no questions asked. For the first three months of my fellowship I was based in Lima, traveling from there to the different branch offices around the country. While amazing to experience the intense variety of Peru, it can be unsettling to be in a constant state of movement- just as you get used to a place, you have to leave, wondering what you could have accomplished with a bit more time, what relationships you could have formed. So, with much eagerness and gratitude, I spent my last month in Peru in the amazing city I’d fallen in love with in December, Ayacucho. For the first time since I had landed in Peru, I was able to not only unpack my bags, but actually put my things in a closet, on hangers, in drawers! The excitement was too much! But Ayacucho proved to be much more than a place to simply ‘hang my hat’. It became my temporary home, complete with friends and family.
I was lucky enough to have my month in Ayacucho correspond with the country’s massive festival of Carnaval. I believe Carnaval is celebrated a bit differently in each city throughout the world, and here, in Ayacucho, they celebrate with water. Each day in the weeks leading up to this great celebration presented a challenge. The children nearby the house where I lived had a scope narrowed in on the gringos, and thought the best way to pass their summer vacation was to hide behind whatever door, wall, or car they could find, and spring an attack of water balloons whatever chance we gave them. And so it turned into a covert operation, constantly on the lookout for little hands clenching all too maliciously to purple and green balloons, ready to pounce. And then one would hit, and by the time you could shake off the shock and turn around, all that was left was joyful squeals, relishing in their triumph. Something had to be done. So dinosaur water guns were purchased for 50 cents. Although cute, they were not enough. And so, the right of passage to becoming a true Ayacuchano took place. Water balloons, and lots of them. And so it became, fully armed at all times before venturing into the dangerous streets, true participants in Carnaval.
It continued like this with no relief, being drenched became the norm. I became very good at repeating to myself ‘it’s just water, it will dry’. And then arrived the true Carnaval. No longer innocent water balloons, but buckets full, followed by baby powder and an insane amount of spray foam. And, to the unlucky, paint and oil. I could no longer reassure myself with ‘it’s just water, it will dry’. But somehow, even the paint was welcomed. Seldom have I laughed so hard, or seen so much pure happiness in every direction.
I had the great privilege to be a part of Finca’s ‘comparsa’, singing and dancing in traditional dress for six hours through the streets of Ayacucho in one of many Carnaval parades. Desperately trying to learn the Quechua (native language) songs, and proudly belting it out whenever the Spanish lines came along, we twirled through the streets, with spray foam and baby powder in hand, ready to engage in war with the thousands of awaiting spectators. It was fantastic.
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The staff at Finca amaze me. I feel so honored to have been a part of something so important to them, and so sad to have to leave them so soon. The work they are doing has an incredible impact. Every socia I got to talk to willingly conveyed their immense gratitude for the loan officers and staff of Finca, that more than money, Finca gives them hope and teaches them how to live as strong and loving women. Skeptics ask if microfinance really works. I have not a single doubt. And it is so much more than finance. It is life.
I had to say goodbye to Finca last week, and they gave me a going-away party I’ll never forget, one that touched my heart and deepened my understanding of what the thousands of socias see. After my short visit to Ayacucho in December, I wrote a blog about the city, post terrorism. One of the things that struck me most was how, in a city that had been destroyed by evil less than two decades ago, there was no indicator that the town had ever been anything other than peaceful. Finca has been an alive presence for fifteen years now, and I have to believe that they are a strong factor in the community’s ability to rebuild and thrive. I can’t wait to see what they accomplish in the next fifteen years.
I was so sad to leave my temporary home and move once again to a new and strange place. But Guatemala has a story of its own, and a people who love it like Finca loves Ayacucho. And slowly, I’m seeing the beauty in this, and finding the courage to uncover the miracles that Friendship Bridge creates every day.
Add comment 14 February 2008


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